Before We're Left With Nothing
by Elsiah
Summary: Raphael pauses to reflect on one teenager’s untimely death. From the outside looking in, he comes to realize that nothing is real ‘til it’s gone.


A/N: I don't own the rights to any genetically mutated turtles or movies of mass destruction. I do, however, own an adorable red-eared slider and a handful of DVDs.

Once again, thanks to Trillian4210 for the beta!

There's one tiny reference to the '07 movie, but this isn't any particular 'verse.

* * *

A canopy of mottled sky hung above the city skyline, draping New York in a somber atmosphere. The chilled wind paraded down streets and alleys, whistling a faded tune on its way inland. Swirling refuse trailed in its wake. It slipped beneath an overpass and whipped the red bandana tails of the lone figure that sat there.

Raphael hugged his knees loosely to his chest. The wind tugged at the coffee-stained newspaper in his hand. Donny had read the article aloud at breakfast, and since then Raph could think of nothing else. He smoothed the worn paper against his leg and scanned it once more. His eyes fell upon the accompanying black-and-white picture. It showed the beginnings of a roadside memorial: a small mound of flowers and a simple white wreath.

He coaxed his gaze away from the image. From his perch on the ledge overhead, he watched several cars zip through the underpass. They sped by carelessly, refusing to acknowledge the mountain of flowers crowned by a white wreath. The roadside memorial now sprawled past the boundaries of its photographed past. Obviously, word had spread of the young man's death.

Raph leaned back and exhaled slowly. He wondered why he felt so drawn to visit the scene of a stranger's last living moments. People died in car accidents every day, strangers who merited a few moments of generic sympathy and nothing more. But this was more than just a two-minute read in the newspaper.

* * *

Raph swore aloud as the traffic stopped dead after its three-foot crawl forward. He'd been in this jam for a solid forty minutes, and an illegal cut down the bicycle lane was now more than tempting. But if he were forced to evade the police, he would never hear the end of it from Splinter Jr., and Master Splinter's punishment might be just as bad. So, he stayed put. Thankfully the end was in sight. A sea of blue and red lights blazed up ahead, just beneath the overpass. In its shadow, the lights burned all the more brightly.

Raph craned his neck to see how close he was to freedom. He was more than annoyed by what he saw. Cars would finally reach the front of the traffic jam, but they would pause by the accident for a few extra moments before racing off. Every vehicle repeated the cycle.

As he came up beside the fire truck blocking the left lane, Raphael wondered why people were so fascinated by wrecks. They swore and moaned the entire time they were stuck. After prying themselves loose from the traffic, they roared off at double the speed limit to make up for the distance lost in that last stationary hour. But before speeding away to freedom, everyone took in their two-second glimpse of the scene with hungry eyes. It was mesmerizing.

Even Raph couldn't help but throw a quick glance at the scene. He saw the mounds of shattered glass, the twisted metal and the stoic cops. He wondered if anyone was inside the ambulance. Judging from the chunk of charred metal that had formerly been a car, Raph doubted that the driver was doing well. A sigh escaped him as he sped through the underpass.

As his bike accelerated down the reopened second lane, the pangs of guilt flared up inside him. He felt somewhat ashamed of treating the scene with the same casual interest he would give to a sideshow at the circus. It was intriguing, yes, but forgettable. And eventually, the guilt slipped away harmlessly, releasing Raphael only five minutes down the road. The accident settled into the back of his mind, but it would make a grand reentrance in just a few days time, when Don opened the morning paper.

* * *

Raph would have forgotten the scene completely if his brother had overlooked the story. Don didn't know that anyone else listened as he absentmindedly read aloud. Raph stirred his cereal and pretended not to listen. Leo and Mikey didn't need to pretend.

Apparently, the cause of the accident and its sole casualty was a teenage kid who had been speeding and weaving through traffic.

"_Thought he was in some kind of video game," one eyewitness remarked._

He ended up flipping his car and wrapping it around one of the overpass' supports. It happened in a matter of seconds.

Raphael thought that was the end of the story, but it was only a recap of what had been reported a few days earlier.

Recently, the paper had managed to get a hold of a few friends and family. Of course there were the common statements such as _"This is such a tragedy,"_ and _"He was taken too soon."_ Without thinking, Raph marked them off as cliché. Almost immediately the guilt was upon him. It was so easy to forget that real suffering and real people were attached to that little piece of newsprint.

The article continued with an account from the teen's brother.

According to him, they had argued that afternoon. They often fought over the most pointless things, and that day was no exception. It ended in the usual manner: Phil's car thundered down the road and vanished for the next several hours. His family never knew where he went, but it hardly mattered; he always reappeared before dinner. Phil would quietly saunter in, taking his seat at the table. The two brothers would pretend that they had never fought, never screamed their hatred for each other, never wished that the other one was dead. On the surface, everything would be fine.

However, the normal routine was disrupted when Phil missed dinner that night. He remained absent when the family settled in to watch the evening news.

Then came the phone call.

"_They rushed him to the hospital, but before we got there he was… God, I never meant those things I said. I swear it! But… every day I wonder if my brother finally meant the things that _**he**_ said. I'll never be able to change his mind."_

For the briefest of moments, silence resounded throughout the kitchen. Raph wondered if everyone was finally listening. He wondered if everyone's thoughts finally mirrored his own.

He risked a glance at his brothers. The inner-workings of Michelangelo's mind were indecipherable as he shoved spoonfuls of multicolored flakes into his mouth. Leo's thoughts were just as difficult to unravel, though he picked at his food with much less gusto than his little brother.

Then Don's finger halted on its search down the page. He recovered his lost place and continued without missing another beat.

The article ended with the time and address of Philip's funeral. It was today.

Raph dropped his bowl in the sink and muttered that he would be over at Casey's. While his brothers cleaned up the remains of their meal, Raph managed to slip the paper beneath his arm undetected. He ripped out the article and grabbed his helmet before heading out of the Lair.

* * *

Another truck swept through the underpass as Raph kept his vigil. He really had intended to meet up with Casey for their _Rambo_ movie marathon, but he was unable to pass the memorial without taking a good, long look.

It was just so strange to see the cold and unforgiving concrete covered in bright, delicate flowers. The mound was so tall that it hid almost all of the black scorch marks on the gray column behind it. Raph stared at the deep, messy scars in the earth leading up to the memorial.

He dragged a rough hand down his face. The echoes of a well-known voice rang throughout his mind, increasing in volume until even the roar of the traffic overhead seemed nonexistent. His brother's voice sneered at him, taunted him, pointed out every single flaw and made them all seem like the biggest, ugliest qualities that anyone could possess. His brother degraded him.

In turn, Raphael heard his own voice lash out at his all too familiar opponent. He listened to his own roars of defiance and the insults he hurled. In his mind, Raph screamed that his brother would never attain the perfection he so desperately craved. He would never make a good leader _**or**_ brother. He wasn't needed or wanted, and he should just crawl back to his jungle where he could pretend to have a reason to live.

"… _I wonder if my brother finally meant the things that _**he**_ said."_

Their words reverberated off of memories of slammed doors, hours of malicious brooding and rough physical confrontations that were far too serious for sparring.

"_I'll never be able to change his mind."_

Another breath of wind swept beneath the crowded overpass and through the deserted underpass. Raphael was numb to the sensation. Head bowed, he clenched his hands with slow and precise movements. His fists lay motionless in his lap.

Slowly, Raph lifted himself from the cement. He flipped from the ledge and landed messily, sending a spray of pebbles in all directions. The memorial stood just a few feet away. Up close, it was neither inviting nor repellant. Raph stepped forward with a blank face. In the shadow of the overpass, it was impossible to see how his emotions swirled and pooled within his eyes.

As he stood over the mountain of flowers, he had half a mind to roundhouse kick the whole thing into the street. He stared at the wreath of white carnations and at the elaborate florist-made bouquets all vying for prominent space. Then, he looked to the base of the mountain.

There, slumped on the ground and tied with a long piece of grass, was bouquet of wildflowers. The entire thing was almost small enough to fit in the palm of Raph's hand. Raph scanned the lonely stretch of road. For a fair distance both ways, there was not one flower to be seen.

He turned back to the little bouquet with a mix of admiration and pity. He reached for the bundle and gently cupped it in his hands. Hundreds of petals fluttered in the breeze, but Raph paid no heed. He examined the flowers' stems, all of which had been cut, not picked. They had been cut simultaneously with precision, with skill.

"With a blade," he whispered.

The bouquet immediately pulsed with a new aura once realization dawned upon Raphael. He knew who had left the flowers. And, surprisingly, the most prominent thing he felt at that moment was relief.

As he kneeled before the memorial, he loosened the knot of the red fabric tied around his eyes. His bandana danced in the wind before he used it to gently bind the loose flowers. With his best effort, he tied a clumsy bow. He took the bouquet and nestled it into the side of the mound. Stepping back to observe the memorial as a whole, Raph allowed himself a small smile.

As he wheeled his bike back onto the road, he took one last look at the little bouquet with the new red bow. He felt as though he had made a silent promise there, though not even he was sure of what it was. But, he knew the person he had made it to, and for the moment that was all that mattered.

* * *

_Mutato nomine, de te fabula narratur_

If you change the name, you will see that this story is about you.


End file.
